


Funny Little Secret

by crysothemis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Fluff, M/M, cliche bingo, secret admirers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-17
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crysothemis/pseuds/crysothemis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having a secret admirer was a lot more complicated than Rodney had expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funny Little Secret

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: ** General spoilers for Season 5. No other warnings (apart from fluff, fluff, and even more fluff).  
> ** Author's Note: ** For my square, "Secret Admirers"  
> **Thanks:** to WPAdmirer, Tex, and Dogeared for beta

There was a Caramilk bar sitting on Rodney's chair. In plain sight, at ten minutes to noon, in his private lab. Anyone could have left it there. Anyone might be coming back for it. But finders were keepers even in the Pegasus Galaxy, and seriously, Rodney hadn't had a Caramilk bar in ages. If someone was going to go carelessly leaving one on his chair, well, it was their loss.

He unwrapped it immediately—no sense hanging on to it and risking having it reclaimed—and took an enormous bite. It was as sinfully creamy and full of hydrogenated fat as he remembered, and it went down as smooth and easy as a logarithmic spiral.

"McKay?"

Rodney jerked upright, twisting to put his back to the door, because that was John. He shoved the rest of the bar in his mouth, chewing manfully, and turned around as slowly as he could manage without giving himself away entirely .

"Hey," John said, ambling in, but then his eyes focused on Rodney's face and his brows went up. "Well, I was going to ask you if you wanted to snag an early lunch, but I guess I got here too late."

"Power bar," Rodney said around a mouthful of gooey caramel and chocolate.

"Right," John drawled, and looked pointedly at the lab table, where the wrapper lay in all its tattletale glory.

"What?" Rodney said, swallowing between words. "I was hungry."

"Clearly," John said. "So what is that, a secret stash? Thought you said you were out of candy 'til the next resupply."

"Um," Rodney said, and swallowed the last of his sweet mouthful. "It was, ah, a gift."

"Really," John said and straightened from his slouch, looking suddenly far too interested for Rodney's sanity. "Someone special?"

And whoa, that was prying, which John never did, well, _had_ never done, not even after the breakup with Jennifer, and Rodney had been grateful for that, really, even if he had wondered why John hadn't so much as dropped a casual reference.

"That's none of your business," Rodney said, which was apparently exactly the wrong thing to say, because John looked even more interested, stepping closer and tilting his head with that intense look he sometimes got when he was trying to figure out whether he was supposed to shoot or make nice.

"What is it, some kind of secret admirer?"

"No!" Rodney said. "Certainly not. Well, okay, maybe. I found it on my chair."

John cocked an eyebrow and shoved his hands into his pockets. "No note?"

"No note," Rodney said, and seriously, John had to be wrong, because a real secret admirer would leave a note.

"You sure it was for you?" John said, and there was an odd little twitch around the corners of his mouth.

Rodney made a face. "My lab. My chair. Who else could it be for?"

"So this happens all the time," John said, completely deadpan.

"Hey," Rodney said. "Why is that so hard to believe? I could be the object of someone's secret crush." He smoothed his jacket down. "Some of us don't need to rely on ridiculous hair and leaning on things."

That earned him another eyebrow and a voice as dry as the Mojave. "Leaning on things?"

"You know." Rodney waved a dismissive hand. "You're always crossing your legs at preposterous angles. It's not nearly as attractive as you think it is."

"I see," John said, but it looked like he was swallowing a laugh again. "So if you're not up for lunch, I guess I'll head out before they run out of bacon for the BLTs."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Rodney said. "I never said I wasn't up for it. Did you say, 'BLTs'?"

And by the time he made it to the mess, the Caramilk bar was (mostly) forgotten.

* * *

The next time it was a doughnut—yeast raised, chocolate frosted—sitting on a clean napkin next to his laptop. It hadn't been there before, and all he'd done was take a quick trip to the restroom.

The room was empty. There was no note, not even under the napkin, and yes, he looked. It was disconcerting. Not that he didn't believe what he'd told John, because of course it was perfectly reasonable for someone to admire him and want to make him happy, but still, well, that was in the abstract, and reality was a chocolate-frosted doughnut tempting him right there on the lab table, its sides all plump and golden, its frosting dark and shiny.

Unless . . . wait. What if it wasn't a secret admirer? What if it was a petty underling with a grudge? Of course, there had been nothing wrong with the Caramilk bar, but maybe that had been intended to lull him into complacency.

Rodney had a scanner handy. He always had a scanner handy. But a thorough investigation showed no stray alkaloid compounds, nothing the least bit unusual, in fact, adulterating the grease and sugar and chocolate. It was a doughnut. An ordinary, chocolate-frosted doughnut. And someone had left it for him, on purpose.

He took a tentative bite, but it tasted fine, maybe a tiny bit stale, but this was the Pegasus Galaxy, and doughnuts didn't exactly grow on trees here. It was, in fact, just what he needed at ten in the morning when his blood sugar was low. And this time John didn't pop out of the woodwork. In fact, no one disturbed him, and he finished the doughnut in sweet, sticky solitude. Which started to be weird again as soon as the last bite was gone, but really, if someone wanted to make him happy, well, who was he to stop them?

So he didn't give the doughnut another thought until lunchtime (again) with John (again, not that there was anything unusual about that), when John gave him a sideways look and passed him a clean napkin in the mess line.

"What?" Rodney said. "Is that supposed to be some kind of hint?"

"Looks like chocolate," John said, making a left-handed, aborted gesture in the direction of his own chin. "Somebody leave you another Caramilk bar?"

"A doughnut, actually," Rodney admitted, and wiped around his mouth and down onto his chin, because John really hadn't been nearly specific enough with that gesture.

"Huh," John said. "Well, at least your secret admirer has your sweet tooth pegged."

"I don't have a secret admirer," Rodney said grumpily, because if he did there should at least be a note.

John's mouth twitched. "You just keep telling yourself that." And then they were up to the food and Rodney got distracted by the chicken salad and never actually defended himself.

* * *

The third time, it was a toy. Not a gadget or an action figure, but an old-fashioned wooden thing with a cup and a ball connected by a string, and seriously, what kind of a secret admirer gift was _that?_

Rodney shoved it out of the way and set his laptop down. He had work to do, because power distribution had gone a little flaky out on the North Pier, and also he'd finally had a bit of a breakthrough on the design of the hyperdrive for the puddlejumpers. He was pretty sure he could reduce the power consumption by a significant amount, maybe even enough to make it useful, and he really wanted to see the look on John's face when he announced that so, yeah. He wasn't going to play with the stupid toy.

There was no point, anyway. He wasn't a child, and he certainly didn't need the distraction. But the stupid thing was just sitting there next to his laptop, taunting him with its smooth, bright wood.

There was no one else in the lab. Rodney triple checked. Then he picked up the toy and swung the ball around on its string, scooping the cup up underneath.

He missed. And missed again. And thirteen more times, and why the hell did they make a kids' toy that was this hard? It was simple physics, but every time he calculated the arc and got the cup into position, the ball went somewhere else, or it hit the edge of the cup and bounced off, or it actually went in the cup but bounced out and for Pete's sake, why was he wasting time like this?

He tossed the cup down on his lab table, hard enough that it skittered across the surface and rolled over the edge, landing on the floor with a satisfying clatter. Clearly his secret admirer was a not-so-secret sadist, and if she wanted to win him over, she was going to have to go back to the sweets. Or at least get him a good toy rather than an implement of torture.

The ball-and-cup lay where it had landed, and Rodney managed to ignore it for a whole hour. And then John wandered in, for no discernible reason. It wasn't even lunch time.

"Oh, hey," John said, bending to pick up the toy, and how he had spotted it under the table, Rodney had no idea. "This yours? I haven't seen one of these in years."

"Busy," Rodney said, and poked viciously at his keyboard.

"Don't tell me," John said, swinging the ball back and forth like he was testing its weight on the string. "Another secret admirer gift?"

"Secret tormenter is more like it," Rodney muttered.

"Nice," John said, like he hadn't heard a word, and swung the ball up in a careless arc. There was the sound of wood meeting wood, and then, impossibly, John was holding the cup with the ball inside.

"Wait," Rodney said, "how did you . . . oh, there's a trick, right? Tell me there's a trick."

"No trick," John said, lazily swinging the ball and catching it again. "Just takes a little practice."

"Fine," Rodney said. "Whatever. Can you do that somewhere else? Some of us have work to do."

"Mind if I borrow it?" John said, making the ball do circles and figure eights in the air and then catching it like an afterthought.

"You can keep it, for all I care," Rodney said.

"Cool," John said, and wandered off with it, like that was what he'd come for. Like he hadn't meant to talk to Rodney about anything else, and now Rodney wanted to know why he'd really stopped by, but John was already out of earshot.

It could be anything, of course. Rodney was pretty sure that if it had been important, anything even approaching life-or-death, John would have let him know. And it wasn't like he didn't have plenty of work to do, _important_ work.

But Rodney still kind of wished John had stuck around.

* * *

Of course, John didn't put the toy away and forget about it like a normal person. Oh, no. He had to bring it to the mess at lunch and show off like an idiot, and seriously, who cared how many catches he could do in a row? And there was no point in holding the ball instead of the cup, even if he did manage to swing the cup up and catch it on the ball, balanced like a hat.

"That is an interesting game," Teyla said, leaning across the table. "May I try it?"

"Sure," John said, like it was his to offer, and handed it over. Rodney was only slightly mollified when Teyla missed the first two catches, because then she apparently got the hang of it, and by the time lunch was over, she had a streak of fifteen going.

"Thank you for letting me borrow it," Teyla said, all flushed and smiling as she handed the toy back to John, and that was it, that was the last straw.

"For your information, it happens to belong to me," Rodney said, but all John did was look at him.

"You want it back?"

"Well, ah, actually, no," Rodney confessed, because what the hell was he going to do with it? He certainly wasn't going to try it in front of John, not after he'd witnessed John making sixty-three catches in a row. "You can keep it. Just, you know, keep it somewhere else."

"Thanks," John said with a self-satisfied smile, and then he was leaving with Teyla, and Rodney hadn't even finished his lunch because he'd been too busy watching them both with the stupid toy.

And he didn't begrudge John his fun—actually, he was glad _someone_ had enjoyed the thing, but he would have felt a lot better if they'd had a chance to actually _talk_ over lunch, and maybe it was ridiculous to be bothered when they saw each other all the time, but he still wished John hadn't . . . seemed to prefer the toy to him.

Clearly having a secret admirer was a lot more complicated than he'd thought.

* * *

He wasted a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out who she was, or what she was like. He gazed surreptitiously around the Gateroom as they prepped for a mission, wondering if it could be Dr. Rubin, who was quiet and gorgeous but, right, far too serious. Or Sergeant Banks, who was . . . okay, actually she would be kind of scary, because she could probably snap him in two almost as fast as Teyla could, and besides, he kind of thought she might be dating Ronon.

There were plenty of people he could rule out. Teyla, of course. And Jennifer, because a) they were well and truly broken up and b) she was dating Major Rizk—still dating, because he'd seen them having dinner together last night. On that note, he could rule out everyone who was married or dating seriously, which was half the female population of Atlantis.

"I say we volunteer McKay," he heard John's voice say.

"Volunteer me for what?" Rodney said, and wow, he really had to pay more attention to the team conversation.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" John said.

"Hey," Rodney said. "C'mon, you can't do that. What are you volunteering me for?"

"You snooze, you lose," John said.

"John," Teyla said reprovingly, and turned to Rodney. "He is only joking. Mr. Woolsey is looking for someone to organize a festive celebration as a means of lifting morale. I do not believe it is possible for anyone else to volunteer you for the job."

"It better not be," Rodney said darkly.

"What," Ronon said. "You don't like a party?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't _attend,"_ Rodney said with a sniff as the wormhole engaged in front of them. "As long as someone else does the work. I just don't see the point of wasting any of my incredibly precious time on frivolous distractions."

"Well, that's good to hear," John said, with exaggerated sincerity. "'Cause I'd hate for you to be distracted."

Rodney made a face because John was laughing at him again, but actually, he did have a point. Rodney's time was far too valuable to be wasted speculating about his secret admirer. Even if it was driving him batty, it really wasn't worth the timeshare on his brain circuits.

"C'mon," John said. "Let's move out."

* * *

The fourth time, it was flowers.

Flowers.

For him.

And it wasn't that he was particularly allergic to them—they were the Pegasus equivalent of dahlias, relatively low-pollen, and he wasn't all that sensitive to most flowers, anyway, or he'd never have managed to make a number of very important apologies over the years.

But seriously, flowers?

"Whoa," John said, and where the hell had he come from? "Your secret admirer is upping the stakes, there."

Rodney wrinkled his nose. "I don't even . . . wait, this means she's from botany, right? That's actually kind of funny, because I'm pretty sure Katie warned the whole department off me, although I suppose they must have some new blood these days, so maybe there's actually someone who never heard . . . not that Katie was spreading lies about me, of course. It's just that sometimes the truth is not entirely flattering, and—"

"You sure there wasn't a note?" John said, and he was poking around the vase, like Rodney hadn't already checked between the stems and under the base. "Huh."

"You find something?"

"Nope." There was a crease between John's eyebrows. "That's kind of weird."

"I know!" Rodney said. "I keep expecting at least some kind of hint, but there's nothing. It's driving me insane."

John leaned against the lab table, arms crossed over his chest. "Maybe that's the point."

Rodney scowled. "What do you mean, the point? Clearly she wants me; she's just too shy to reveal herself."

John shifted against the table, rolling his hips up so he was half-sitting on the edge. "Maybe she just wants to torment you. Keep you guessing until you crack."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yes, and _then_ what? That doesn't even make any sense. I mean, seriously, what kind of person would do something like that?"

"Beats me," John said with a lift of his shoulder. "I'm just saying."

"Fine," Rodney said. "Whatever. You want these?" And he reached for the vase of flowers and shoved it at John.

But John pulled back like he was the one with a pollen allergy, then raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Gee, I didn't know you cared."

"Oh, please," Rodney said. "The least you can do is get rid of them for me."

"Sorry," John said, and hopped down from the table. "A guy's got to draw the line somewhere. Hey, maybe someone down in the group lab would like them."

"Right. Like I'm going to march down there with a huge vase of dahlias."

"Why not?" John said. "It might improve your popularity with the ladies." And with a quick pat to the shoulder, he was out the door, leaving Rodney standing in the middle of his floor, staring at the flowers.

They were bright red with little orange streaks on the petals, and actually, they were kind of pretty. Somebody might like them. Somebody female. And hey, if his secret admirer wanted him to keep them for himself, she ought to have left a note.

He ran into Cadman on the stairs. Of course he did; it was shaping up to be that sort of day. Her hair was up for once, but there was a twitch to her lips that could not possibly mean anything good.

"Nice flowers," she said, and the twitch became a sly smile. "Where'd ya get them?"

Rodney lifted his chin and did his best to look nonchalant. "That's none of your business."

"Really," Cadman said, eyes bright and now doubly curious. "Come on, spill. Are they for someone, or _from_ someone?"

"For your information," Rodney said, brushing by her, "they're for the lab. A gesture of . . . appreciation. For their hard work."

"Whoa," Cadman said. "Did you hit your head? Or touch something you weren't supposed to? Wait, I know! You've been replaced by a pod person."

"Please," Rodney said. "I'll have you know I'm very appreciative. I just happen to have extremely high standards."

"Riiiight," Cadman said. "Well, good luck with that."

"Thank you," Rodney said primly, and headed on down.

* * *

The entirety of the physics-and-engineering departments stared at him like he'd sprouted tentacles. Coleman's jaw dropped; Okeke's eyebrows shot up, and Miko (and yes, he thought of her as Miko, because even after five and a half years, he still couldn't pronounce her surname) tittered behind her hand.

"What?" Rodney said. "I can't show a little appreciation for my department?"

"It is very . . . generous of you," Simpson said, and took the vase from Rodney's hands. She made a show of smelling them appreciatively, and then placed them on a high shelf, which had the advantage of being visible from the entire room, even if it was a little out of the way.

"Well," Rodney said, dusting his hands on his pants. "That is, you're welcome. Keep up the good work and all of that."

There was a silence long enough to start to get a little weird.

"Dr. McKay?" Okeke said finally. "Are you sure you are feeling okay?"

"Yes, yes, fine," Rodney said. "Never better. Now let's all get back to work, shall we?"

There was a flurry of typing and a room full of bent heads, but something still felt off. They were humoring him, that was it. And if the whispers and smiles were anything to go by, they all thought he'd gone off his rocker.

Yes, well, so much for John's prediction that it would improve his reputation with the ladies. Rodney scowled and sat down at an unoccupied workstation. He couldn't leave now—it would look like he was running with his tail between his legs. Besides, he had plenty to do, and he could work anywhere he had a keyboard and a cup of coffee.

He really should have known better. Seriously, he was following the advice of a man who hadn't had a girlfriend in at least five and a half years, and no, Chaya and that other ascended woman did not count. The only one who came close to counting was Larrin, and Rodney wasn't exactly sure what that said about John, but it made his advice suspect, at the very least.

His underlings were still treating him like a potential head-case when John showed up to take him to lunch. There were more whispers as Rodney logged off his work station, and when he got to his feet, Miko tittered again.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Rodney said. "It's not like _he_ gave me the flowers."

John's whole face scrunched up like he'd stepped in something disgusting, and someone across the room giggled.

"What?" Rodney said, because, honestly, they were acting like a bunch of eleven-year-olds. "What did I say?"

"C'mon, McKay," John said. "I heard a rumor they have pastrami."

"Really?" Rodney said, momentarily distracted as he followed John toward the door.

John gave him a deadpan smirk as they entered the corridor. "Nope. It's tuna melts again. Got you moving, though."

"Damn," Rodney said, but he didn't put much heat in it. John had gotten him out of there, anyway—which, since John had gotten him into the situation in the first place, was only fair. "For your information," he announced as they started down the stairs, "it didn't work."

"What didn't work?" John asked, which was willful ignorance at best.

"The flowers," Rodney said. "They just made everyone think I'd lost my marbles."

"Maybe you should bring them flowers more often," John said, with a bland glance over his shoulder. "That would really confuse them."

"Huh," Rodney said, because he hadn't thought of it that way, but now that John mentioned it, there was no point in letting his underlings get complacent. Maybe they thought they knew him, but hey, he was a man with a secret admirer. He had depths they hadn't even dreamt of. "Maybe I will."

That earned him another sideways glance. "Just try to remember to leave me out of it, okay?"

"What?" Rodney said, because he hadn't said anything like that. He hadn't even implied . . . oh. "Okay, look, they were just laughing at me. They didn't actually think that you would have . . . I mean, that's perfectly ridiculous."

"Just so we're clear on that," John said, and this time he didn't even look at Rodney.

Which was, okay, a little weird. But John was John, and it didn't mean anything. It wasn't like John would ever . . . heck, John was _straight,_ and even if he weren't, Rodney couldn't imagine him . . . okay, the candy, maybe. And possibly even the toy. But the flowers? Seriously? And . . . oh, God, he couldn't believe he was even contemplating this. It was entirely possible that the lab was right and he had gone mental. Because John Sheppard? As anyone's secret admirer? Was ludicrous.

"McKay?"

Oh, right. He'd stopped halfway down the stairs, and John was waiting for him on the landing. "Sorry," he said, jogging down to where John was. He was imagining things. That was all. His secret admirer was obviously someone who didn't know him well, if the flowers were anything to go by. So John was . . . entirely out of the question. "Let's get some lunch."

* * *

Only he couldn't stop thinking about it. John continued to act utterly normal, well, normal for John, which meant cracking jokes at inappropriate moments and making indecipherable faces and having lunch with Rodney nine days out of ten, and when had they started doing that, anyway? It was disconcerting to realize it was a thing, like a regular Thing, and yes, of course, half the time Ronon and Teyla were there, too, but even when they weren't, it was a given that—barring fire, flood, or Wraith attack—John would be having lunch with Rodney.

It hadn't been true when he'd been dating Jennifer. He was sure of that, because he'd usually had his lunches with her. And it hadn't been true before then, had it? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that John had started to come looking for him at lunchtimes shortly after the break-up, and at first he'd assumed it was John's way of being supportive, in his casual, completely off-the-record sort of way. But even after Rodney had stopped moping, John had kept coming by the lab.

So, right, it didn't mean anything. They were friends. Of course they were. Rodney got that, even if it had taken him awhile—well, years, actually—to believe it. But John Sheppard was not his secret admirer.

Some things were simply impossible.

And the latest data point certainly confirmed that conclusion, because there was no way on New Lantea or any other planet that John would leave a _teddy bear_ on Rodney's chair.

The thing was brown and fuzzy, with a pink ribbon around its neck—yes, _pink_—and if anyone had asked a mere three minutes ago, Rodney would have firmly denied the existence of anything even resembling a teddy bear in the entire city of Atlantis, the recent sojourn on Earth notwithstanding.

Rodney skirted his chair gingerly. Not that he thought it was going to explode—if his secret admirer had had it in for him, he would have known a long time ago. But seriously, a teddy bear was worse than flowers, and how was it possible that someone could be this interested in him and not know him _at all?_

Right, well, apparently this called for decisive action. Rodney hunted until he found a piece of paper and a pen—not an easy task in Atlantis's nearly paperless workplace, but Miko turned out to have a stash—and went back to his lab. He tossed the teddy bear on top of a convenient spectrometer and sat down to set the record straight.

_To whoever is leaving items in my lab,_ he wrote. _It's not that I don't appreciate the small tokens of respect._ Well, some of them, anyway. _Naturally, I am grateful, particularly for the chocolate and the doughnut._ There, that ought to be clear. _But is there some reason why you aren't leaving a note? I'd very much like to_ . . . Know who the hell you are. . . . _be able to thank you properly. Which I obviously can't do while you remain anonymous. Oh, and is there any chance you could get your hands on another Caramilk bar? I really enjoyed that one._

Rodney folded the paper and placed it on his lab table. Then, for good measure, he got down the teddy bear and set it on top. He couldn't exactly write, "To my secret admirer" on it, so that would have to do.

He was thinking about heading down to Radek's lab, just to have an excuse to leave the room for awhile, when John showed up.

And laughed. Out loud. At the stupid teddy bear.

"Wow," John said. "Your secret admirer really has the hots for you."

"What?" Rodney said, squinting at him, because that didn't make any sense. "It's another child's toy."

"It's a code," John said, and there were still crinkles around his eyes. "It means she wants to cuddle you. All night long. You're supposed to sleep with it."

"Seriously?" Rodney scowled at the bear, which looked back at him with its brown button eyes in its brown fuzzy face like it was laughing, too. "What's the point of that?"

John made a quizzical face at him. "Didn't you ever sleep with a toy when you were a kid?"

"Well, I sometimes slept with my molecule cards," Rodney admitted. "I made them myself. Each card had an element with lines indicating the number of potential bonds so you could connect it to other cards." It had been his favorite toy, even after Jeannie had scribbled on half of the Hydrogen cards with red magic marker. "I figured out how to make caffeine before I was seven," he added fondly.

"That explains a lot," John said.

Rodney sniffed, because honestly, John was just jealous. "For your information, not everyone feels the need to cuddle an allergen magnet," he said. "Do you have any idea what fraction of the weight of a standard teddy bear is composed of dust mites?"

John wrinkled his nose. "So what are you going to do with it?"

"I'm going to leave it here until my secret admirer gets the note I wrote." Rodney watched John like a hawk as he said it, but John didn't bat a suspicious eyelash, just lifted his chin and looked, well, skeptical.

"So you think if you ask, she's going to reveal herself?"

"Yes?" Rodney said. "Well, honestly, why not? It's not like your average secret admirer is in it for altruistic purposes. They want me intrigued; so I'm intrigued. Mission accomplished."

"Apparently she didn't get the memo: 'Rodney's easy; he can be had for the price of a Caramilk bar.'"

"Hey," Rodney said. "That's completely untrue."

One of John's eyebrow's arched. "Could've fooled me."

"Hmph," Rodney said. "Well, I won't be able to prove or disprove your theory until I get an answer to my note, now, will I?"

* * *

The answer took two days, long enough that Rodney got decidedly cranky. He hated not knowing things, and fine, he was willing to indulge someone who was willing to leave him doughnuts, but there was a reason he'd always peeked at his Christmas presents early.

In the end, he gave up waiting and moved the teddy bear and the note to an out-of-the-way corner of his lab so he didn't have to stare at it. At least that way he could get some work done. But when it finally came, he couldn't miss it—his secret admirer had tipped the bear upside down, so it was standing on its furry head.

He crossed the lab quickly and slipped the note out from underneath. It was the same piece of paper he'd used, the answer written below his note in a blocky print that was obviously intended to disguise the writer's handwriting.

_Sorry,_ the note said. _I'm all out of Caramilk bars._

"Aw, come on," Rodney said aloud to the empty room. "That's it?" And then he saw, balanced on the upside-down chin of the teddy bear, two tiny candy hearts, the kind that had messages printed on them.

Oh, God. That was as bad as the teddy bear. One of them, the pink one, said "Be Mine," and the yellow one said, "Hot stuff."

They were right there in the open, where anyone could see them. Rodney popped them both in his mouth, and they weren't even the good kind of sugar, because even the artificial banana flavor couldn't quite cover the overwhelming taste of cardboard.

He swallowed quickly and scowled at the blocky handwriting.

Of course, the real problem was that the only people whose handwriting he knew were the scientists in the physics lab who used the whiteboards with him. He'd know Radek's chicken scratches at a hundred paces, and he'd do pretty well at recognizing Simpson's, Okeke's, Coleman's, and Miko's, too. But he didn't know any of the botanists', or the chemists', or any of the military contingent's, either, because nobody wrote anything out by hand around here.

Hell, he wouldn't even recognize John's handwriting.

But . . . oh, God.

It was exactly the sort of thing John would do. He'd be cryptic and obnoxious and impossible, and wow, that was weird. That was seriously weird.

It wasn't that Rodney had anything against the guy-on-guy thing. A mouth was a mouth, and he'd accepted (and, yes, given) a number of blow-jobs over the years. He'd just never thought that _John_ would actually . . . well, okay, he couldn't imagine John wanting play ridiculous secret-admirer games with anyone, let alone him.

It was bizarre. In more ways than one. Because yes, fine, John was an incurable flirt, but it wasn't like he dated men any more than he dated women.

Or was that what this was about? All flirt, no substance, once again? And wouldn't that be Rodney's usual luck.

Not that he wanted to date John. Hell, he'd never even contemplated it. John was, well, _John._ And, sure, an annoying variety of women apparently considered him attractive, but it wasn't like Rodney would care about that. John was his friend. And if he wanted . . . oh God.

Rodney had to know. He didn't even care if it _was_ John. He just had to know, as soon as humanly possible.

Rodney found the pen he'd never bothered to give back to Miko and wrote underneath the block letters: _No, seriously. Why the hell are you doing this?_

He turned the teddy bear right-side up, shoved the note underneath, and took a steadying breath.

One way or another, that ought to shake _something_ up.

* * *

It was agonizing waiting for an answer. He checked the stupid bear six times a day, but there was no new note, and the paper stayed exactly where it was. And whenever they were together, John acted perfectly normal, like he had no idea Rodney was tearing out his already too sparse hair waiting for an answer.

It was driving Rodney insane. He'd taken to leaving the lab and talking loudly in public places, but it didn't do a bit of good. What he needed was a plan. No. What he needed was a trap. A John-shaped trap.

Right, well, that wouldn't be too hard to devise. John Sheppard was a creature of habit, and his most obvious habit was taking Rodney to lunch. It was easy enough to rig a hidden camera pointed at the bear, with a motion detector set up to alert him if anyone entered the lab and a remote feed to his laptop. He waited in a supply closet one floor down, which was cramped and musty and thoroughly uncomfortable, but if it worked . . .

At two minutes past twelve, the sensor indicated movement. Rodney waited, listening to the audio feed. There, footsteps. And then: "McKay?"

It was definitely John. A moment later he came in view of the camera, obviously looking around for Rodney. "Huh," he said, but he was clearly not one of those people who talked to himself when no one was around, because he just turned and walked out of camera range again.

He wasn't taking the bait. It was entirely wasted eff—no, wait. There he was again. Looking left and right like he was making sure he was alone, and then . . . jackpot!

On Rodney's screen, John reached forward and eased the note out from under the bear. He unfolded it, scanned it quickly, and then . . . refolded it and slid it back exactly where it had been.

Okay, that was weird. But maybe he had to think about his answer. Right, that was it. And obviously he wouldn't have brought any candy with him because he'd been expecting to find Rodney there. So now Rodney merely had to give him another opportunity to—

"McKay?"

Rodney jerked around, because it sounded like John was right there _and_ on the audio feed. Or, no. No, it was his radio. "Whoa," John said, "is there a problem with this channel? I'm hearing an echo."

Rodney scrambled for the keyboard and managed to cut off the audio. "Really? I don't have an echo on this end."

"It sounds like . . . no, wait. It's gone. Okay, that was weird."

"Yes, yes, very weird," Rodney said, and it came out a little testy, but John was right there on his screen looking confused, and the last thing Rodney wanted him to do was start looking around for a camera. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

"Just wanted to know if you were too busy for lunch."

"I could do lunch," Rodney said. "I'll meet you there in five minutes."

"Great," John said, and disappeared off the monitor without giving the note or the teddy bear a second glance.

* * *

John didn't look the least bit guilty when he met Rodney at the mess. He just said, "Hey," and led the way to a table, and wasn't he supposed to be distracted or secretive or _something?_

Rodney plonked his tray down maybe a little harder than absolutely necessary, because John looked up with a speculative eyebrow and said, "What's got into you?"

"Nothing," Rodney said, because he couldn't exactly tell John that he suspected him of stalking with cute, fuzzy toys. Not until he had something closer to proof. "I am absolutely, perfectly fine."

"Okay," John said, and waited until Rodney had a mouthful sandwich before adding, "Your secret admirer playing hard to get?"

Rodney choked on his mouthful and had to gulp it down so he could cough. How the hell could John ask that with a straight face? Because even if he wasn't the guilty party, he still knew the answer, the snoop. "As a matter of fact, yes."

John leaned back in his chair and eyed Rodney, still way too casual, and if Rodney had known he was this good at lying, he would have suspected him earlier. "Maybe she doesn't think you'd be interested if you found out who she is," John said.

Okay, that was weird. Was that a confession of sorts? It could be a confession. Or a hint, anyway, because if it _was_ John, that would explain an awful lot. "Well, then, why is she doing it in the first place?" Rodney said, and the pronoun nearly stuck in his throat.

But John was still relaxed, like he didn't know he'd just given himself away. "Maybe she just wants to make you happy."

Rodney blinked and set his sandwich down. "Wow. Really?" And he really wished he knew for sure whether John were talking about himself or some random woman, because the answer really depended . . . okay, maybe not. If John really just wanted to make him happy. . . . "That's actually, well, let's just say that would go a long way toward predisposing me in her favor."

"Really," John said, and okay, that was weird. He actually looked . . . kind of cranky. "So you don't actually care who she is." His eyebrows twitched. "Thought you said you weren't that easy."

"I'm not _easy,"_ Rodney said, possibly a little bit too loud. "I'm merely . . . appreciative."

But that didn't seem to mollify John's annoyance, not if that tightening around his mouth was anything to go by. It didn't make sense, not unless . . . okay, maybe he didn't want to be found out. Maybe he was so deep in the closet he didn't want to admit what he wanted, and wouldn't that be just utterly like John Sheppard? _If_ he did guys. _If_ he was interested in Rodney. Which still seemed completely impossible, beyond any realm of comprehension.

"Sound kind of easy to me," John said, and busied himself with his lunch.

Because Rodney couldn't even picture John in bed. Okay, fine, he'd seen him naked a time or two—shirtless in the infirmary, and there'd been that memorable time when they'd had to strip for a bizarre mud-flinging ritual on M4W-163. But it didn't exactly translate. He hadn't been looking at John like _that,_ because he'd never even imagined . . . okay, not that John's mouth would be _wrong_ for giving blow jobs. It was full and wide, and there was that cleft in the bottom lip that would fit perfectly around a cock, and Jesus.

He was imagining it. He was picturing John Sheppard down on him, lips wrapped around him, eyes looking up to meet his, and oh, God, the image sent a bolt of sensation straight to his crotch.

It was really and truly not something he'd ever wanted, or even thought about. But he was damn well thinking now, and it was all John's fault, with his sneaking around and reading notes and quite possibly contemplating answering them.

"So," Rodney said, because he still had the camera in place, and he needed answers. "It looks like I'll be spending the rest of the day down in the zoology lab. They're having trouble with one of their containment fields, and we can't have the city overrun with small, furry creatures, now, can we?"

John's head snapped up. "What kind of small, furry creatures are we talking about?"

"Oh, nothing too dangerous," Rodney said, which was true, since he was making them up wholesale. "Not much bigger than a Norway rat, I'm told."

John frowned. "You need help with that? 'Cause if those things are loose in the city, Woolsey's gonna have a conniption fit."

"No, no, nothing's loose yet. Which is why I have to see to the containment field. An ounce of prevention, you know?"

"I want you to let me know the instant one of those things escapes," John said. "We can't have vermin in the air shafts."

"Don't worry," Rodney said airily. "You'll be the first to know."

* * *

The supply closet felt even more cramped and dusty, especially by the third hour. Rodney hunched over his second laptop, running hyperdrive simulations—perfectly productive, thank you very much—while his primary laptop supplied the audio and video feed from his lab. Feed which was currently pointless, since the motion detector was picking up exactly nothing.

After five hours, he finally admitted defeat. He straightened his cramped legs, packed up both laptops, and headed back to his lab.

Where the teddy bear was standing on its head again.

"What the—?" Rodney plonked the laptops down on the nearest table and whirled to face the bear. The note had changed position, too, but there was no candy.

Rodney removed the paper gingerly. Written in the same block capitals below his most recent note were the words, "I thought it was obvious. I want to jump your bones."

Just like that. Jesus. And then Rodney noticed the smaller print at the bottom of the page. "No cheating. Take down the camera, or we're through."

Holy crap. Rodney turned to find the camera with its battery case open, the battery itself sitting on a nearby shelf. The motion detector lay next to the battery, wires dangling.

Wow. Okay, that was thorough. Except it didn't explain . . .

Rodney fired up his laptop and checked the source of the feed. Everything was just exactly how he'd—no, wait. The feed wasn't coming from his camera. Someone had hijacked the signal and replaced it with a video loop that still showed the bear in the original position.

Oldest trick in the book, the kind that showed up in the movies. And Rodney hadn't seen it coming.

Radek was always telling him he was off his game, but this was the first time Rodney had actually had any reason to believe him. Except . . . okay, this was clearly the work of someone with a certain amount of technical skill. More skill than John Sheppard possessed.

Rodney dropped into his chair, staring at the screen. He felt . . . weird. Really weird. He should be relieved, shouldn't he? Because this was proof. It couldn't be John. John had just been being nosy when he'd read the note. And the fact that John had a mouth that looked like it was made for sucking cock was neither here nor there, because he wasn't the one who was doing this. He didn't want Rodney. He didn't want anything. End of story.

Right. Unless . . . no. What if John had had help? It wasn't impossible. After all, John was the one who had been in the lab when the camera was running. Maybe he'd seen it, and just hadn't let on. Maybe that was why he hadn't answered the note in the first place.

And John was certainly capable of getting help. After all, more than half the science department personally owed him their lives. He wouldn't have even had to admit to anything; he could have just said he wanted to pull a prank on Rodney. Hell, Radek would have done it, just to be annoying. All John would have had to do was ask.

Rodney hunched forward in his chair and ran a quick trace on the origin of the video loop. It came up, unsurprisingly, as one of the public workstations in the lab downstairs.

Which meant it could be anyone. And Rodney had learned . . . exactly nothing. Well, nothing apart from the fact that his secret admirer apparently wanted him. As long as he got rid of the camera.

_Look,_ Rodney wrote, with what was really considerable restraint, _I think we should meet. In person._ And he underlined "person." Twice.

He didn't even bother to rig a long absence from the lab. It wasn't like it helped, anyway. So he was amazed when he found the bear holding the note under one of its paws a mere four hours after dinner.

Rodney eased the note out from under the bear's paw and unfolded it. The answer was in block capitals again, squeezed between Rodney's request and the bit about the camera.

_Aw, that would spoil the fun._

Fantastic. His secret admirer was playing coy. And if it was John . . .

Crap. If it was John he didn't know what he'd do, because he didn't know what the hell he wanted, or even what _John_ would want, and damn it, he was going insane.

So instead of answering, he took the note with him. Biology had some impressively accurate Ancient scanners. Maybe there was something they could turn up.

* * *

The bio lab was surprisingly empty at eleven-thirty at night. Clearly certain departments were a little short on work ethics. But fortunately Rodney knew something about just about everything, so it was the work of a few moments to have the note analyzed for DNA and fingerprints, which Rodney then cross-referenced (hey, if he could hack into the infirmary computers, it was their own fault for having lousy security) to the medical database.

The DNA turned out to be mostly his. Along with some of John's, but of course he already knew that. There were several additional traces, but the only one the scanner could piece together was Miko's.

Right, well, Miko was the one he'd gotten the paper from, so that told Rodney exactly nothing.

Wait. The ink. The ink was key. He'd been carrying Miko's pen around in his pocket, so his secret admirer had to have one of her (or _his_) own. That took a separate analysis, and right, he was going to need a new piece of paper after this. But when the reading came back, Rodney had to check it twice. And a third time.

It was his pen. The two inks were identical. So either someone was stealing his pen out of his pocket, or . . .

Wait, no. That was obvious, too. The one person who had paper was also the one person who had pens, so all Rodney knew was that his secret admirer had gotten a pen from exactly the same source he had.

So much for science having all the answers.

* * *

He went to see Miko in the morning. He needed a new piece of paper, anyway.

"I'm sorry," she said with a bob of her head. "I don't understand. Many people borrow my pens. I am always happy to share."

"Yes, but has anyone taken one and not given it back? Say, over the last week and a half?"

Miko blinked at him from behind her glasses. "Oh, yes. Yes, someone has."

Rodney clenched his teeth and tried not to explode. "Well, _who?"_

But Miko just ducked her head, and if Rodney hadn't known her well, he would have thought she was smiling. "You, Dr. McKay."

If there wasn't steam coming out of his ears, it wasn't for lack of brains boiling inside his head. "I meant _apart_ from me."

Miko pursed her lips, like she was thinking. "No one that I know. But I don't lock the drawer. Anyone is welcome to borrow if they return what they take," and she raised her eyebrows pointedly.

"Yes, yes, fine, I'll give it back. Only I'm still using it. Speaking of which, can I have another piece of paper?"

This time Miko really did smile. "Of course, Dr. McKay."

Naturally, that was when Cadman showed up. "Whatcha need the paper for, Rodney?" she asked. "Did you run out of coffee filters or something?"

"For your information, I use a gold filter for my coffee," Rodney said, and snatched the paper from Miko's hand. "And what are you doing here, anyway? This is the physics lab."

Cadman rolled her eyes. "Believe it or not, I do more than just blow things up. Dr. Takeuchi and I are collaborating on a project involving subspace."

"And explosives," Miko chimed in, and that was when Rodney realized Cadman was referring to her.

"Right, well, then, carry on," Rodney said, and made it out of there as fast as he could.

* * *

A lesser man might have been daunted, but not Rodney McKay. There was still one obvious route of investigation, and he wasn't about to leave it unexplored.

It was easy enough to find a time when John was busy—he often had staff meetings when they weren't offworld, and it only took a subtle question or two at lunch to determine that he had several scheduled for the afternoon. Which meant there was no chance he would be home when Rodney showed up at his quarters.

Rodney rang the chime purely as a formality, and was shocked when the door slid open.

"Colonel?" He poked his head inside, but the room was empty. Rodney stepped inside and looked around, then checked the bathroom, just to be sure. No John. Which didn't explain why he hadn't locked the door—after five and a half years in the city, he damn well had to know how.

His quarters looked exactly like they always did—bed made up military tight, the rest of it neat despite the scattered athletic paraphernalia. There were no socks under the bed, no discarded t-shirts hanging over chairs. Right, well, that actually made Rodney's job a little easier.

He started with the bedside table, but found nothing incriminating—no pens, no toys, no candy. The dresser drawers were next, and wow, John folded everything into squares, even his boxer shorts. There were the usual stripes and plaids, but in the back were a couple of intriguing pairs, one that looked like a Hawaiian print, and wait, were those parrots?

Okay, right, he wasn't here to check out John's underwear. He was on a mission, a mission to find hard evidence. And seeing as there was nothing in, beside, or, yes, under, John's shorts, it was time to move on.

There was nothing in the t-shirt drawer, nothing under the socks. One drawer contained a surprisingly large pile of sudoku books—most of them completed. Correctly, even. The trunk at the foot of John's bed contained a spare holster and a couple of guns in cases. The filing cabinet held, oddly enough, a fuzzy orange blanket.

"Rodney?"

Jesus fuck. Rodney whirled, banging his shoulder on the corner of the cabinet and staggering to his feet.

It couldn't be. But it was. And the next time he broke into someone's quarters, he really had to remember to bring a life signs detector. And shoulder pads.

John was staring at him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nothing." Rodney said, rubbing the sore spot. It wasn't like John had proof of anything. "Ah, that is, nothing important. Just, you know, business as usual."

"In my quarters," John said.

"At the moment, yes."

John crossed the room toward him. "You're looking for something."

Rodney lifted his chin. "Certainly not. What would I be looking for?"

"Pretty sure that was my question," John said. He came around the bed and zeroed in on the file cabinet, which was still open. "You need a spare blanket?"

"No," Rodney said, because he didn't have a lie, but that wasn't a good one. John would see through it immediately, and God, he had to think, but all he could think was how utterly stupid this was. If John would only just admit to being his secret admirer, he wouldn't have to lie at all. He could just . . .

What? Kiss him? He'd never even . . . okay, yes. He'd kissed a guy. Once, and it had been a disaster—stubble and bumped teeth and the overpowering taste of cheap beer—and he'd sworn he'd never do it again. Because John might not have the beer breath at the moment, but he pretty much had stubble 24/7, and Rodney wouldn't count out the teeth, even if John's were nice and straight on the top and kind of endearingly crooked on the bottom and oh, God.

He was thinking about it. Thinking about kissing John, which wasn't the same as thinking about John blowing him, not at _all,_ and the worst part about this secret admirer game was that he still didn't know for sure that it was John, and if he leaned in right now, there was a 50-50 change he'd get slugged.

"McKay?"

"Yeah," Rodney said. Not that he wanted to lean in. "I mean, no. No, I do not need a blanket. Or anything else. So I'll just be, you know, on my way, and you can carry on. As you were."

"Just a damn minute," John said, and snaked out a hand to grab Rodney's arm as he tried to brush by. "You didn't say why you were here."

John's hand felt hot, even through Rodney's jacket sleeve. "I told you," Rodney said. "It's nothing. Nothing important, anyway, and if you'll just let me go, I'll be able to take care of it. Elsewhere. And by the way, are you aware that you left your door unlocked? I just rang the chime and it opened."

John rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you never noticed. I programmed the door to let you in years ago."

"Really?" Rodney stared at him, utterly at a loss, and Jesus, John's lips were really, really kissable, and he wasn't even sure he'd mind beer breath. Or stubble. "Years?"

"Since we took the city back from the Replicators. Figured it was safer that way. You know, in case of emergency."

"Oh," Rodney said. And of course it was for emergencies. Not . . . anything else. "Of course. Well, I'll just be—"

"Hang on a second," John said, his eyes narrowing again. "Don't tell me it's those things from zoology. I thought you said you were going to fix the containment field. Because if those damn rats are loose in the city, so help me—"

"They're not rats," Rodney said, which was ludicrous because they were a figment of his imagination. "More like . . . short-tailed lemurs. With orange fur."

"Rodney—"

"Don't worry. I didn't find any in your quarters. You are one hundred percent vermin-free." There, that ought to do it.

"You said," John grated, "that I would be the first to know if they escaped."

"And you will be! This was . . . purely a precautionary measure."

"It better be," John said, and he didn't sound convinced, but at least he let go of Rodney's arm.

"Yes, yes," Rodney said, and brushed by him, and it was proof of just how far this stupid thing had gone that he felt a bizarre little tingle when his shoulder touched John's arm. "Well, I have to be going. Things to do, containment fields to maintain. You know how it is. No rest for the genius."

"Wait," John said after him, and Rodney didn't glance back, but he was pretty sure he was looking at the file cabinet again. "Orange fur?"

But Rodney was already mostly out the door, so he didn't feel it necessary to answer that.

* * *

"Okay," Rodney wrote on the new piece of paper. "This is getting ridiculous. If you don't want to meet me in person, this thing is over. And the teddy bear gets it."

Ha. If that didn't get a response, he'd eat the paper.

He went about his afternoon like usual, firing off the results of his hyperdrive simulations to Radek, avoiding Ronon, who had somehow gotten it in his head that he needed more sparring lessons, and sorting through reports on everything from city maintenance to Wraith stunner technology.

"McKay!"

Rodney whirled, but it was too late. Ronon had found him, and in the middle of a long hallway so there was no way to pretend he hadn't heard. "Okay, look," Rodney said. "I realize the importance of physical exercise, blah, blah, blah, and naturally I want to hone my skills at hand-to-hand idiocy, but—"

"Sorry," Ronon said. "Can't spar today. Busy."

"Wait, what?" Rodney said, but Ronon didn't even blink.

"I need music for tomorrow."

Rodney gaped, because that was pretty much the last sentence he ever expected to hear coming out of Ronon's mouth. "What's tomorrow?"

"The morale party," Ronon said. "For Woolsey. I'm in charge."

"You? Seriously?" Rodney pulled his jaw up with effort. "What idiot had that brilliant idea? No offense," he added, because wow, Ronon was crossing his arms over his chest, and really, no one should be allowed to have biceps like that.

"Nobody else wanted to do it."

"Right, right of course. This is the price we pay for apathy. Not that it won't be a perfectly adequate party. I'm sure it will be very, very . . . festive. Ah, what were you saying about music?"

Ronon uncrossed his arms. "I need some dance music. Sheppard said I should ask you."

"Oh, very funny," Rodney said. "Does he even know what kind of music I listen to? No, obviously not, or he would never have made that suggestion."

"On Sateda we did a warrior's dance. Very strong. I hummed the tune and Sheppard said it sounded like something you might have. He called it 'Bolero.'"

_"Ravel's_ 'Bolero'?" Oh, God. Leave it to John to suggest something like that. He'd probably had an embarrassing crush on Bo Derek when he was twelve—not that Rodney would know anything about that, since his parents had been utterly unreasonable about R-rated movies—and clearly Ronon's knowledge of Earth culture was still far too spotty.

"Yeah," Ronon said. "That one."

* * *

So somehow Rodney ended up spending his afternoon editing music (_Faster_ Ronon had said, _and more drums._) rather than doing anything remotely useful. Which paid off in an answer to his note when he finally got back to his lab.

_Maybe I'll see you at the big shindig._

Rodney scowled at the teddy bear's annoying, fuzzy face. He was about ready to throw the thing in the recycler for real, and come to think of it, if his secret admirer really was John, he'd probably just laugh. And if it were someone else . . .

Okay, he wasn't going there, because somehow things had gone from worrying that John was his secret admirer to actually _wanting_ it, and he was screwed either way, because it wasn't like he could _date_ John, not like he'd dated Jennifer or Katie. Unless . . .

Oh, God. What if _that_ was what the lunches were about? It would be so like John to date him without letting him in on the secret. And . . . okay, wow. They'd apparently already done the whole key exchange thing, or at least John had, because Rodney had full access to his quarters, and it was ridiculous to feel bad that he hadn't returned the favor because he hadn't even known. He hadn't _known._

Well, he knew now. Or he thought he did. Only he really didn't, because John or _whoever_ was doing this was playing ridiculously coy, and it just had to end.

_I'm sorry. I'm afraid that's not good enough,_ Rodney wrote in a firm hand. _Either approach me at the party and confess your identity, or meet me on the fifteenth floor balcony of Building S9 at 11 PM. The party will still be going on, so it's not as if anyone will see you._

There. That ought to do it. S9 was on the South Pier, well off the beaten track. Even John couldn't object to that.

_Do it, or the teddy bear goes in the shredder,_ Rodney added, for good measure.

Just in case it wasn't John.

* * *

The party was in full swing by the time Rodney got there—not his fault, honestly, because he'd been coping with a last-minute malfunction in the city's fire suppression system, and if that had acted up, it certainly would have put a damper on the revelry.

He heard the party before he saw it, the familiar strains of Ravel's _Bolero_—faster, and with a ridiculously loud drum track—coming down the corridor. There were cheers and stomping noises, and by the time he made it to the gym—Ronon had, of course, chosen the gym for a venue—people were clapping their hands in time.

The gym was lit with a bunch of multicolored spotlights—no disco ball, thank God—and it was refreshingly bright enough to see, even across the room.

Ronon was easy to spot, a head above the crowd, dreads flying as he whirled and jumped. But next to him . . . Rodney pushed through the crowd until he had a decent view, because apparently Ronon had conned Teyla and John into joining him. Teyla spun and stomped next to him, all power and grace, but John . . .

Okay, John had clearly spent some time learning the moves, because he was jumping almost as high as Ronon, and his stomps were pretty much in time. But there was still something about the curve of his spine, or maybe it was the crinkling in the corners of his eyes, that made his version of the dance seem ironic, a self-deprecating meta-dance, his feet pounding out a rhythm that said, "Yeah, I know, but it's for _Ronon."_

Rodney fought down a sudden wave of lust, because this was it. This was why John was perfect for him, because ironic self-awareness was pretty much the hottest thing ever, and he could picture it, now: trading barb after sarcastic barb and rolling their eyes at each other while they blew each other's minds and bodies, and oh, God, he wanted it so badly he was going to embarrass himself right here in front of everyone.

Good thing everyone was looking at the dancers.

And of course John had picked a ridiculous way to tell him. Of course he'd approached the situation sideways. It made perfect sense if the stupid teddy bear was a satirical gesture, only . . .

He couldn't picture it. Even as a joke, it wasn't really John, not unless John just wanted to make fun of him, and if it that was what it was, then it meant that John didn't actually want him.

Unless he actually did, and he was capable of laughing at Rodney at the same time as lusting after him, and okay, that would quite possibly make Rodney seriously cranky, but he had to know anyway.

He had to _know._ He had to know _right now._ He needed—

"Hey," a voice said from behind his elbow, and Rodney jerked his head around to see Cadman in a low-cut top and absurdly high heels. "Wanna dance?"

"I don't . . . I . . . aren't they still . . . ?" But the strains of _Bolero_ had been replaced by something with a back beat, and John and Teyla were over at the makeshift bar, looking sweaty and glowing and reaching for beers. "Sorry," he said, not even bothering to look at her. "Maybe later," and made a beeline for the drinks, because he really, really needed one.

And okay, yes. That was where John was.

"Nice dance," he managed when he was in earshot, because he couldn't ask in front of Teyla.

She smiled and said, "Thank you," with utter sincerity, while John lifted a knowing eyebrow and countered with, "Nice music. Loved the drums."

"They were Ronon's idea," Rodney said as he grabbed a beer, because there was no way he was taking artistic responsibility. "I just did the remixing."

"It was good work," John said, and there wasn't any sarcasm in that at all. "You made him happy." And Rodney followed John's gaze to see Ronon talking to a gaggle of admirers, including Sergeant Banks, while he shoveled down enormous quantities of food, grinning all the while.

"Yes, well, it's his party," Rodney said. "He did all the work. He's supposed to have a good time. And . . . oh, hey, is that the food?" because he'd just noticed the spread, and apparently Ronon was the best person ever for organizing parties, because he'd gotten those shrimp things with the bacon wrapped around them, and wow, those looked like Swedish meatballs.

"Enjoy," John said, and clapped him on the shoulder before turning to weave his way through the crowd in the opposite direction. Rodney watched him go, torn, because he still needed to know, but the food looked amazing and anyway, he could talk to John after he had a plateful.

But by the time he had a heaping pile of hors d'oeuvres, John was actually out on the dance floor again, this time with a tall brunette from Chemistry, whose name was Caxton or Claypool or possibly Rodriguez, and how did they even know each other?

Rodney popped two shrimp into his mouth and watched them. He wasn't jealous. They were just dancing. And yes, she was working it, doing a little shimmy with her hips that John couldn't help but notice, and now she had her hands on John's shoulders and _he_ was doing a little hip wiggling, and okay, fine, if Rodney could have cut in on them, he damn well would have.

But he couldn't, because he wasn't a fool and he knew the rules, and maybe the rules were a pain in the ass, but dating John was going to be worth it.

Assuming he actually got the chance. Because the way John was dancing out there, it was as if he'd never even contemplated an eleven-o'clock rendez-vous, and wow, it was ten-thirty already.

Half an hour. Half an hour until he discovered the truth, for once and for all. Clearly, this called for more food.

Miko bumped into him at the refreshments table. Literally.

"Oh," she said, her plate wobbling alarmingly as she tried to balance it and her drink and keep her feet. "Dr. McKay. I hope you are enjoying the party?"

Rodney frowned and helped himself to more shrimp and some stuffed mushrooms. "Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

"Oh! No. No, of course not." Miko bobbed her head.

"Great," Rodney said, snagging a couple of little puff pastries for good measure. "If you'll excuse me." He didn't bother to wait for an answer before moving on toward the drinks.

John was apparently finished with his dance, because he was getting himself another beer and the chemist was nowhere in sight. Rodney dodged around a group of botanists, but before he could make it to the bar, another scientist—Chatterji, from Engineering—had insinuated herself into John's space. Rodney couldn't see her face, but she was obviously flirting her heart out, because a moment later, John had set his beer down and, after checking his watch, let her drag him out onto the dance floor again.

Rodney slowed his pace, carefully not looking their way, because if John was his secret admirer, what the hell was he doing with all of these women? And then he realized: John had checked his watch.

It was ten-thirty, at a party that was bound to go until the wee hours. John had absolutely no reason to be interested in the time . . . unless he had some kind of appointment.

Warmth flooded Rodney's gut, and he reached for the beer bottle John had set down on the bar. It wasn't like John was going to come back for it, and it was still nearly full. No sense wasting good beer. And if he maybe kind of tried to taste a little of John when he raised it to his lips, well, that was his business and no one else's.

The next twenty minutes crawled by. John danced with three women and didn't look Rodney's direction even once, but he checked the time—surreptitiously, but Rodney was watching him pretty carefully—twice more.

Rodney waited, the butterflies in his stomach turning into hamsters or possibly squirrels, while John made no move for the door. And then he figured it out. John was waiting for him to leave first.

Right, well, he could do that. It was time to go, anyway.

* * *

He made it to the balcony with two minutes to spare, a life signs detector quietly chirping in his hand. There was no one else in the vicinity, so he leaned against the railing and looked out over the city lights. It was darker than usual, tonight, so maybe his emails about power consumption had done some good, and people had actually remembered to shut their labs down before heading to the party.

It was a calm night, not cold, and the ocean below him was dark and quiet, sparkling intermittently in the reduced light. It was the perfect setting for a romantic interlude, but John wasn't here yet. John was, in fact, now one minute late. Which was utterly typical. No doubt another hot scientist had asked him to dance. Or he'd got lost on his way to S9, and how hard was it to find his way around a city he'd lived in for five years?

Rodney never got lost. Well, okay, sometimes he did, but only in the lower areas of the northeast pier where all of the corridors looked exactly alike, and all it took to get his bearings was a glance at a schematic.

But John was well and truly late. He didn't show at five after eleven. Or fifteen after. And yes, fine, he hadn't answered Rodney's final note, but if he hadn't seen it, why the hell had he been checking his watch? Rodney waited, the jumble in his stomach turning more and more leaden, until midnight rolled around and he was forced to conclude that John well and truly wasn't planning to show.

John had chickened out. He'd gone lily-livered at the last minute, and what was he afraid of, anyway? Surely Rodney had dropped enough hints along the way to make it clear that he was interested. Surely John couldn't think Rodney would reject him, not after all of this.

But if he hadn't showed now, he wasn't going to show. Rodney pushed away from the balcony railing and trudged through the door. He was thumbing the controls of his life signs detector, about to shut it off, when he saw it: eight floors down in an inner room: a single pulsing dot.

It hadn't been there when he'd gone out onto the balcony. It was, in fact, just on the outside edge of the life signs detector's field.

Purposefully so?

Damn it, that would be like John. To be just out of reach. Rodney didn't hesitate; he clattered down the seven flights of stairs, and it wasn't until he'd reached the final one, two floors below the transporter, that the dot woke up and started to move. But by then it was too late.

"Sheppard!" Rodney called as he came out of the stairwell, and John whirled to face him at the far end of the corridor.

Caught. Red-handed.

"McKay," John said. He didn't move, but he didn't run, either, just shoved his own life signs detector into the back of his belt as Rodney trotted down the corridor to meet him.

"You idiot," Rodney said when he was close enough. "What did you think I was going to do? Do you have any idea how long I was waiting up there?"

John's chin went up, like he still thought he could bluff his way out of this. "Guess you really thought she was gonna show."

"Don't be an ass," Rodney said, and tucked his own life signs detector into his jacket pocket. "You do realize you're completely transparent, don't you? Or did you really think I wouldn't figure you out?"

He wasn't imagining it. John's ears went red at their pointy tips. "Sorry," John said, ducking his head. "I'll just, you know," and he jerked a thumb toward the stairs.

"Enough with the idiocy," Rodney said, and leaned in to press his mouth to John's.

"Mmphh," John said and spread his hands, but Rodney didn't pull back, because John's lower lip was a plump and soft as he'd imagined and the stubble wasn't all that bad and he'd had enough beer himself that he couldn't taste any on John. Besides, when he slid one hand up into John's hair, John made a funny little whimpering noise.

"Jesus, Rodney," John managed against his lips, but Rodney wasn't buying it, because if John didn't want this, he shouldn't have been waiting down here with a life signs detector. Or, you know, done all that stupid stuff with the teddy bear.

"Oh, please. Don't tell me this isn't what you've wanted all along," Rodney said, and tipped his head to fit his lower lip into the corner of John's.

"Rodney, I . . ."

"Oh, yeah?" Rodney pulled back far enough so he could see John's face, but he left his hands on John's shoulders so he wouldn't get any ideas about running. "Say it, then. If you don't want this, just say it."

John's gaze was trapped in his, eyes dark and wide. "I can't," he said finally, huskily, like a decision. He glanced from Rodney's eyes to his mouth and back again, and his tongue swiped his upper lip. And then he bent and touched his mouth to Rodney's.

It started slow and weirdly tentative, but it didn't stay that way, because one of Rodney's hands twisted into John's hair and John's arms slid around his waist, and when John decided to give in, he gave in with his whole body. Rodney pressed up against him, panting into his mouth, because if this was the reward for putting up with that ridiculous teddy bear, it was worth it. More than worth it, God: the warm slide of mouths together, the heat of John's chest against his, and there was a patch of skin right where John's neck met his shoulder that Rodney just had to rub his thumb across, again and again.

"Fuck," John said, and yanked his head back.

"Wha—?" was all Rodney could manage, because his lips were more interested in kissing than talking right now.

"We can't do this," John said, and everything snapped into a bizarre form of clarity, the kind that doesn't make any sense at all.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me. After all of this you're going to get cold feet?"

"We can't do this _here,"_ John said, eyes a little wild. "Look, if you really . . . if you want, you can meet me in my quarters in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?"

"You've heard about a thing called 'discretion,' right?"

"Fine, yes, we can do that," Rodney said, because John had a point, and while this was certainly an out-of-the-way corridor, it wasn't exactly private. "Your quarters, ten minutes."

"Okay," John said, like he was convincing himself, and then he dove back in for a quick, hard kiss. "Okay, ten minutes." And then he had wrenched himself away and was striding down the corridor, not even glancing back over his shoulder.

Rodney stood where he was, feeling bereft, which was ridiculous, because ten minutes wasn't exactly a hardship. And if John didn't want to walk together, well, that was probably just discretion, too. John wouldn't stand him up, not after a kiss like that.

Would he?

Rodney made his way slowly down the hall and up the stairs to the transporter. John was long gone, but in less than a minute, Rodney was standing in the corridor outside his room. He paused for a moment, his hand in front of the door controls. Did proper etiquette say he should knock? No, John was the one who had programmed the door to let him in. He might as well take advantage of it.

The door slid open just like the last time, but John's quarters were dark. "John?" Rodney tried for good measure, but there was no answer, so he stepped inside and palmed the lights on. John had said ten minutes. Maybe he'd had something he had to do, excuses to make at the party or something.

John had left his golf clubs leaning against his file cabinet, but otherwise his room was as neat as usual, the bed tight enough to bounce a quarter on. It was almost going to be a shame to mess it up.

Well, okay, no. It wasn't. It really, really wasn't.

After five and a half minutes, John still hadn't showed, so Rodney wandered into the bathroom and made use of it, then wandered back out again. It was weird to be here without John, even if he wasn't searching the place for evidence. But he didn't need evidence anymore. He knew.

And maybe it still felt weird—seriously, flowers?—but that just meant John had a side he hadn't been aware of before. And anyway, the flowers must have been ironic, too. A diversionary tactic, so he'd never in a million years guess it was John. Only . . . okay, why would John do that? Because the whole "I just want to make you happy" thing was bullshit. John couldn't honestly believe he would prefer to be teased until his balls were blue, could he?

Rodney sat down on the bed. It was a good thing he was a genius. A damn good thing. But of course, John had been counting on that. He had to have been. Even if he had seemed unflatteringly surprised that Rodney had managed to piece it together.

But the alternative didn't make any sense. Because why would John go to all that trouble and not want to be found out? That would be just—

The door slid open, and John was there, staring at Rodney like he hadn't expected to see him.

"You did say ten minutes," Rodney said. "And it's been—" He checked his watch. "—fourteen and a half."

"Sorry," John said, and came into the room far enough so that the door could close behind him. "Just needed to put in a little more face time."

"At the party?" It felt weird to be sitting when John was still standing, so Rodney got to his feet. "Oh, don't tell me. There were still a few women you hadn't danced with?"

John made a face. "It's not like I'm doing it for fun."

"You're not?"

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Really not," he said, and the gears started clicking in Rodney's head and why hadn't he figured this out before? Well, of course he'd just been assuming John was flexible, like him.

"So you're, ah, gay?" Rodney said, and John's chin jerked up.

"Kind of thought you'd already figured that out." John was still standing there awkwardly by the door like he was having second thoughts, and that was just wrong, and also really not what he'd implied with the _ten minutes._

"Yes, well, obviously," Rodney said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I know you're not," John said.

Oh, crap. Was that what this was about? "You do realize that it's completely unfair to hold that against me at this late date, right? I mean, yes, I like women, especially the blonde ones with the, you know, short hair. But that doesn't mean I can't expand my horizons a little."

"It's fine," John said, his expression gone bizarrely bland. "I get it. You're horny; I'm handy." The corner of his mouth curled. "Guess I better stop complaining about you being easy."

Something inside Rodney snapped, because if that was what John really thought, he really hadn't been paying attention. "I told you," he said with a completely justified roll of his eyes, "I'm not easy." He crossed the space between them with two quick strides. "Or did you really think I'd do this with just anyone?" And he wrapped a hand around John's neck and hauled him in.

John didn't put up even a token resistance this time, just sighed into Rodney's mouth and opened for him, one hand clenching tight on the fabric of Rodney's jacket sleeve. And clearly the kiss in the hallway hadn't been a fluke, because John's lips fit his perfectly and Rodney didn't give a damn about the stubble and God, he wanted more, right now.

Rodney used his hip and the hand wrapped around the back of John's head to turn them around and then nudge John backwards. "C'mon," he said, and maybe it came out a little bit like a whine, but that was totally not his fault. "Your bed is too neat. Seriously, nobody should have a bed that neat."

John's lips twitched. "It's a habit," he said, and he let Rodney march him backward and push him down to the mattress. "Christ, McKay."

"Just for the record," Rodney said, stripping off his jacket, "This has nothing to do with the Caramilk bar."

"It damn well better not," John said, and grabbed his arm to pull him down. They rolled sideways together on the narrow bed, and Rodney ended up on his back with the ridge of John's erection pressed long and hard against his thigh, and God, that was hot, in ways Rodney hadn't even stopped to contemplate. John wanted him. John wanted _him._ And yes, fine, he'd had plenty of time to get used to the idea, but it hadn't felt quite this real until now.

"Let's get you out of this, shall we?" Rodney said, tugging at John's buttons, and John rolled off him and pulled both shirt and t-shirt over his head in one easy move.

"Oh, that is much better," Rodney said, because there was warm skin under his hands now, skin and soft hair in all the right places, only John wasn't being very cooperative, because he was too busy with his hands at Rodney's hem, and oh. Okay, the shirt could come off. Fair was fair and all.

So maybe it was the presence of all the skin, or maybe John was just getting bolder, because his hands went straight for Rodney's fly, and as long as they were going to do that, they might as well go for broke. It took some tugging and grunting and squirming, but then they were both out of their pants and boots and socks and John was kind of staring at him and just breathing.

"Earth to Sheppard?" Rodney tried, and John's eyes stuttered up to his face.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I just never thought we'd actually . . . you know."

"Get this far?" Rodney said, and then he was grinning and giddy, because this was real and they _had_ gotten this far and it was going to be good enough to make him forget all about the completely ridiculous way it had started.

"Yeah," John said, and rolled on top of Rodney like he couldn't wait one minute longer. His cock slid right next to Rodney's and then his hips rolled once, and it was, oh. Oh, God.

"Nngh," Rodney said, his hips lifting, pushing up against John's body. "Yes, oh hell yes, that is just—Jesus." Because this wasn't like anything he'd ever had with a guy before, although why he'd thought it would be, he had no idea, and the hair of John's lower belly was a sweet, sweet drag against his foreskin.

John's mouth traced a trail down his jaw to his neck, the stubble prickling like a thousand tiny teases against his skin. "So what do you think?" John said against his collarbone. "Better than snuggling up with a teddy bear?"

"Oh, God, yes," Rodney gasped, because John had slid down far enough to find a nipple. "Much, much better."

"Good," John said, and reached between them to wrap a hand around Rodney's cock.

"Mmmrgph," Rodney whimpered, and held on to John's shoulder while John pumped him, slow and smooth. John had lifted his head to watch Rodney's cock sliding through the curl of his hand, and there was something in the intensity of his face that made Rodney's breath catch. It was like this was something he'd never expected to see, and that was just . . . okay, fine, Rodney wasn't easy, but he wasn't cruel, either. And this was _John._

He'd forgive a dozen teddy bears for John.

"I still can't believe you . . . put me through all of that," Rodney said. John's mouth found his nipple again, which was incredibly distracting, but he had something to say, here. "Seriously, what were you thinking? I mean, you're the one who thought I was easy. You couldn't have made your move a little earlier?"

The steady pull of John's hand faltered for a moment. "Didn't think you'd be interested."

"Oh, please," Rodney said, and lifted a hand to ruffle John's hair. "It's not like I didn't drop enough hints."

John lifted his head. "Hints?"

"What, are you dense? I've been asking to meet you. I _told_ you I was prepared to be appreciative, and you understood exactly what I meant. What more did you want? Was I really supposed to sleep with that ridiculous teddy bear? Because I am sorry, but there are certain things even—"

But John's eyes had gone wide. "Oh, fuck," he said, and rolled off Rodney to sit on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched and tight.

"What?" Rodney propped himself up on his elbows. His cock felt cold and forlorn without the press of John's hand. "Wait, wait, John. What are you . . . ?"

John's voice was rough. "I'm not your secret admirer."

"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney said, because nothing else made any sense, and he wanted John back. Right now. "Of course you are. You were there. At the rendez-vous, even if you were too chicken to actually show up on the balcony."

John twisted to face him, his expression dark. "For fuck's sake, McKay. I read the damn note. You left it where anyone could have seen it."

"Oh, God," Rodney said, because that still didn't compute and his gut was churning. "But why would you be there? Just to spy on me? But if you weren't . . . that doesn't make any . . ." Oh, but it did make sense. It made sense exactly one way. "Wait, wait, wait. You were _jealous."_

John's chin jerked away, and he rubbed his face with his hands. "Crap."

"No," Rodney said, because he was a genius and everything was slotting into place in his mind. "No, I get it. It's okay. I get it."

"I wasn't trying to take advantage," John said stiffly. "I thought you knew. I thought you'd figured it all out, okay?"

Because _of course_ John hadn't left him a teddy bear with a pink ribbon. John might tease him, but he wouldn't do it like that. Rodney knew him better than that. He always had. "So you thought you were, what? A consolation prize?"

John still didn't turn to look at him. "Something like that."

"Oh, please," Rodney said, and he was grinning like an idiot and the universe was back in order, with every single star in its proper place. "Did you really think I'd prefer someone who obviously doesn't know the first thing about me? I mean, I'm not saying I didn't enjoy the candy, and the doughnut, of course, but after that it just got annoying, and, oh, God, you have no idea what a relief this is."

John turned back to squint at him. "What?"

"Well, obviously I thought you meant it all ironically, but, I mean, seriously, the idea of you giving me a teddy bear, even as a joke, is just . . . well, let's just say I had to perform some serious mental gymnastics to explain it, and wow, come to think of it, there might have been some wishful thinking involved. It's funny, you think you're purely objective, but of course no one is ever truly objective in matters of the heart."

A series of emotions flickered across John's face, too fast to follow. "Wishful thinking, huh?"

"Ah, yes?" Rodney said, because he wasn't ashamed of it, and John was being way too dense, here. "And can we please get back to what we were doing? Because I was enjoying that."

John frowned. "You really don't care that I'm not her?"

"Oh, honestly," Rodney said, because enough was enough. He grabbed John's arm and tugged, and John let himself be pulled until he was stretched out lengthwise right next to Rodney. He wasn't hard, and it was enough to make Rodney wish he'd actually shut his mouth for once, only no. No, he was glad they hadn't had sex when John had the wrong idea, because that would have made them both feel like crap.

"What do you want me to do?" Rodney said. "Shout it from a rooftop?" And he leaned in to find John's lips.

"Might be nice," John said against his mouth, and Rodney caught the wistfulness in that. He tipped his chin, teasing John's lips with his tongue, and it was good. John's lips parted and his tongue found Rodney's, but he still seemed hesitant. Like things had changed, which they really, really hadn't.

Oh, right. Rodney was the one who had something to prove, here.

He pulled back and sat up, taking in the long lines of John's body, the planes of his chest, the little hollow at his hip, the curve of his cock, half-hard now. John was watching him, still uncertain, and okay, hollering on rooftops might be indiscreet, but there were other ways to make a point.

Rodney braced a hand on the bed next to John's hip and leaned in. "Ah, I'm afraid it's been awhile, so my skills may be a little rusty," he warned, and then bent to suck the tip of John's cock in.

"Fuck," John breathed, his hips jerking, and his cock hardened, filling Rodney's mouth. "God, Rodney."

A wave of heat rolled from Rodney's chest to his groin, and he wrapped a hand around the base of John's cock and took it as deep as he dared, flicking his tongue on the upstroke and then sliding back down again.

He wanted this.

It was another tiny revelation. He wanted to taste John, to map the shape of his cock with his tongue, to suck until his lips ached. Because this wasn't like any blow job he'd ever given. Those had always been about trading favors, and this was . . . something else entirely. This was John's pleasure, silky-hard against his tongue. This was everything John meant to him, every time they'd teased each other or saved each other's lives, every eye roll, every shared smile. This was them, together, and John's cock tasted better than anything had a right to.

Rodney sucked and licked and tried to make it good, tried to remember every technique he'd ever figured out, everything anyone had ever done on him that he'd liked, but it was all a muddle and John was twitching and gasping and okay, maybe technique was overrated here. Maybe all he needed to do was let John lift his hips a little, and keep his tongue against the little cleft on the underside, and add a little pressure with his lips and yes, God yes, it wasn't going to take long, because John's thighs were starting to shake and his hands were making fists in the sheets and his breathing had gone sharp and short and ragged.

Rodney gave two more long, hard sucks, until John's hips arched off the bed and he made a soft, broken sound and came.

Rodney hung in there, trying to swallow what he could, but it had been too long and there was too much and he kind of made a mess of it. But John didn't seem to mind, because he grabbed Rodney's shoulders and pulled him up and kissed and kissed him.

"Jesus, Rodney," John said when he finally let go.

"Yes, well, of course I do have rather high standards," Rodney said, even though he was pretty sure standards had nothing to do with it. "So perhaps my 'rusty' is another man's top form."

John smiled dazedly and kissed him again. "No complaints here."

Rodney grinned back, and before he could so much as nudge John's thigh hopefully, John's hand wrapped around his cock, and wow, apparently John had standards, too, and more than a little experience, because he knew exactly what he was doing, and what he was doing was _amazing._

"John," Rodney said, and he was sure he had something more profound to add, but all that came out was, _"John."_

"Yeah," John said softly, but there was a note in his voice like that meant more to him than just . . . oh. He was still worried about the stupid secret admirer.

"I wouldn't have," Rodney said between breaths, because John's hand was amazing and it was getting hard to concentrate. "Seriously, if it had been anyone but you, I would have turned them down."

"Really," John said slowly. "What if she were blonde? With short hair?"

Rodney closed his eyes like he was thinking about it. "Well, maybe for a threesome."

"Rodney!"

"No," Rodney relented. "Seriously, no. She gave me _flowers._ And hacked my video feed. Come to think of it, that should have been a big clue right there."

John's hand slowed. "Wait, what? You thought I did that?"

It sounded ridiculous now. Rodney opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe? I mean, you could have gotten help. Practically everyone owes you their life around here."

"Ah," John said, his hand slowing further. "So you thought I'd just go ask someone like Zelenka to help me stalk you."

"Okay, fine," Rodney said, pushing up hopefully into John's hand. "It was a little implausible. Not to mention out of character. For the record, I didn't think you'd actually need to tell him why you wanted to do it."

"Right," John said, but his eyes were crinkled at the corners and his hand started moving again. "So you managed to convince yourself I did something you know I wouldn't do, and got help from someone you know I wouldn't ask in order to do it. Guess you wanted it to be me pretty bad."

Rodney lifted his hips again and sighed happily as John's hand gave a little twist in response. "Please don't tell me you have a problem with that."

"No," John said, and leaned in to nuzzle Rodney's shoulder. "Actually, I don't." And then he was sliding down on the bed until his mouth was where his hand was, and—

"Oh, God," Rodney whimpered, as wet heat sucked his cock in. And maybe it was that he was already pretty far gone, or maybe John was feeling exactly what he had been feeling, because everything John did was perfect, speed and heat and pressure, and oh, he wasn't going to last, but he didn't care, he didn't care, he needed this.

Rodney lifted his head to look, because he just had to see John's mouth stretched around him, and oh, God, he'd been right. John's mouth was perfect for sucking cock. John was perfect for this, for _him_, and he couldn't look away. And then John looked up, his eyes locking on Rodney's, dark and intense, watching Rodney's face as he did something with his tongue that was just—

_"Oh,"_ Rodney said, and came, and John's eyes closed as he took it, took in every single drop and swallowed, and God, God, that was the sexiest thing Rodney had ever seen, and he couldn't believe that this was his, that he'd figured everything wrong but still somehow managed to work it out right.

He dropped his head back onto the mattress and panted for awhile, until John slid up and kissed him.

"Hey."

"Hey," Rodney said.

"You do realize that if I'd been your secret admirer, I wouldn't have taken the toy I'd given you, right?"

"Oh," Rodney said, because he hadn't even thought of that. "Right. Of course you wouldn't. Of course you . . . wait. You took it because you were jealous? I thought you thought it was funny."

"It _was_ funny. Until you started to act like you were interested in her."

"I think I can be forgiven for that. I thought she was you."

"I can live with that," John said, and kissed him again, and Rodney was happy to just drift in the warmth of his mouth and the touch of his skin for awhile. But still, there was something niggling at the back of his mind.

"Of course, this begs the question of who really is my secret admirer," he said finally.

John arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you care?"

"No," Rodney said, and was surprised to find it was true. "As far as I'm concerned, she can go inflict her flowers and teddy bears on someone else. _Anyone_ else." He reached to trace a line of hair across John's chest. "Although I might miss the candy. A little. I mean, not that I would . . . just for sweets. Certainly not."

"You better not," John growled, and leaned in again, and yes, okay, fine.

Some things really were better than chocolate.

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

 

They met, as usual, in a deserted lab on lowest level of the West Pier. No one came down here, not even the marines on patrol. It was the perfect spot for a clandestine rendez-vous.

"You'll never believe this." Miko spoke in a rushed whisper, even though her life signs detector assured her they were alone. "Not only did he never answer our note, he gave the teddy bear to Dr. Beckett for his clinic."

"What? How is that possible?" Laura put her hands on her hips, her face a picture of indignation. "I thought we had him hook, line, and sinker."

Miko nodded. "It's very strange."

"I know."

"Very, very strange."

"I know!"

"He should be climbing walls and tearing out his hair by now."

"What's left of his hair," Laura quipped.

"On the plus side," Miko admitted, "he hasn't yelled at anyone in the lab in a week."

"Really?"

"Really. And yesterday he brought us flowers again."

Laura frowned. "This really wasn't the sort of payback I was going for."

"I know," Miko said. "But perhaps we have somehow managed to change his attitude for the better?"

"Huh," Laura said. "But how?"

"I don't know. It's almost as if he's . . ."

"Yes?" Laura leaned in. "Almost as if he's what?"

Miko shrugged her shoulders, at a loss for how to explain it. "Happy," she said finally. "It's almost as if he's happy."


End file.
